The Squeeze

by Lesley Glaister

  Such a total fucking fool.

  And even if he could bear the laughter, if he got involved with the police Vivienne would find out. And his folks. He groans at the thought of their disappointment. And Nina, Christ that doesn’t even bear thinking about. He’s just lost all her money. And Vivienne will want a divorce – that would almost be OK if it were not for Thomas, and Arthur. Poor Arthur who was made to eat a bowl of godawful cauliflower cheese last night, and bravely forced it down, tears standing in his eyes.

  He has let everyone down. And himself. His gloved hands clench into fists. It’s not my fault! He wants to roar it. Not home. Not the police. The Club then? Does he have the balls, to go in there, confront Chapman? If he does nothing he will not be a man. Whatever a man is. Nina’s voice starts to come to him, a real man is not afraid to be weak; a real man doesn’t have to prove his masculinity.

  And Vivienne’s voice: Man up.

  What do you do? How do you win?

  They can both shut the fuck up.

  The laugh seems to ring in his ears, to reverberate through his teeth as he walks and he is wired with anger, driven along by the primitive force of it. Is it the alcohol? He doesn’t care. Not a civilized feeling; it’s animal; it tastes of blood and musk. He’s shivering, whether with fever or emotion, he doesn’t know. It’s unfamiliar, almost thrilling; it is another Mats. Now he can choose. He can go to the club or he can be a total weakling and go back home and forget it. He’s spent his whole life trying to please, pleasing his father, pleasing Nina, pleasing Vivienne – and they are not even fucking pleased!

  He shouts out a laugh of his own.

  And stops, presses a his fist in its damp woollen glove against his chin, and turns, decisive now, scans the road. If anyone is watching let them watch. If anyone wants to laugh, let them.

  Turning off the main street, he goes down the narrow slope, past kebab shops, off-licenses, betting shops, to City Massage. But it’s dark. No pink light. The place looks shut. Have they gone? Have they scammed him of his money and gone? There’s a car parked, a BMW, a skulking cat, the bass boom of music from somewhere but no other person on the street. His blood picks up the rhythm and beats in his ears.

  On the door someone has pasted a notice. Squinting in the poor light he reads it. A compulsory purchase order, this block is up for demolition with planning permission for twenty-nine dwellings. He peers closer, reading it over and over as if it can reveal any more information, as if it can help him.

  His skin burns; his eyes are hot as embers in their sockets.

  He tries the door, stumbling, heart lurching as it opens easily with its blatant jangle. The reception is dark, towels gone. He trips on a fallen chair. He flicks a light switch but the power is off. The lounge is cold and fusty smelling; he can just make out the sofas, the desk, the gleam of a Coke bottle. Weak light is coming from somewhere deeper in the building. He follows it through the bead curtain, past the stairs, to where a door stands open.

  ‘Smith?’ calls a distant voice, Chapman’s, he’s pretty sure and Mats stops. Each tooth in his jaw feels large and heated.

  ‘Smith, you there?’ comes the voice again, muffled, faraway, sounds as if it’s coming from below.

  Mats goes through into the back of the building, a room with broken furniture, a stained mattress leaning on the wall. On the floor a car lamp shines on a cardboard box – he lifts the flap; it’s full of cacti, fat and spiny. On one of them a flower is coming, a waxy pointed bud of pink. There’s a trapdoor open in the floor. A light is moving down below, the jump and slide of a torch beam.

  ‘Let’s get shot of her and get out of here,’ comes the voice.

  A foul smell floats up from this cellar, even with his blocked nose Mats catches it. He peers down into the trapdoor. The top of Chapman’s hat is visible, a trilby, beaded with rain, a thin shine of torchlight on an earth floor.

  Get shot of her? Get shot of her?

  Marta?

  He retreats to the shadow as the floor creaks and Chapman comes up the ladder, looking round. ‘Smith?’ Chapman climbs over the sill of the trapdoor, stands, dapper in overcoat and black trilby, brushing something off his coat with a leather-sheathed hand. His shadow cast upwards by the car lamp looms across the ceiling. ‘Smith?’ he calls, though his voice is less certain now.

  Mats steps forward.

  ‘Where is she?’ he says.

  Chapman’s head whips round. ‘Christ!’ His hand goes to his chest.

  ‘Where?’ Mats steps closer, so much taller and bigger and stronger and drunker, rising through drunkeness to a hard bright clarity. He doesn’t know himself.

  Chapman, clears his throat, smooths his beard.

  ‘What’s down there?’ Mats steps towards Chapman and the man retreats, shaking his head. ‘Who’s down there?’ Mats takes another step forward, heat in his veins, a fizzing in his fists, a fog rising up in front of his eyes; that smell.

  ‘Think you can fuck with me?’

  Chapman begins to speak but Mats pulls back his fist and hits him with all the force he has, all his anger fused and forged into a hard fast fist. He socks Chapman in the breastbone and the man’s mouth opens, his eyes stretch wide as he topples backwards, cracks his head on the edge of the trapdoor, collapses into the folds of his coat, down into the cellar. The ceiling suddenly lights up in the lack of his shadow.

  How long Mats stands there, panting and cradling his throbbing fist, he does not know. There’s no noise except for the thudding of his heart and his own ragged breath. The hat lies beside his foot. Eventually he finds it within himself to move, bends to pick up the car lamp and shine it down the trapdoor. Chapman is splayed on his back, blood spreading behind his head, his mouth, his eyes, wide open with surprise.

  A noise comes from Mats’ mouth, one he’s never made before and one that shocks him. A rough groan of satisfaction. He flashes the beam around until he finds what he has feared, another body on the floor, a human shape bundled up in something.

  Marta.

  He switches off the lamp and flings it down to land on Chapman’s chest. With his foot he nudges the hat through the trapdoor and flips it shut.

  The BMW is still parked outside; music still thumps from a window; rain still falls. He tilts his head up to see the shine of lights behind glass in the tenement opposite. People at home on a Tuesday night, cleaning their teeth, going to their beds. Marta is dead. Little Marta. Of course he will grieve but not yet, nothing is happening inside him yet. He has killed a man. Killed a man. And the night is just the same.

  Is it over then?

  When he arrives back on the main road, he peels off his gloves and shoves them into a bin. Isn’t that what murderers do? He’s murdered a man and the world is just the same.

  And now he will go home to his wife.

  Marta

  Last night there were noises downstairs, doors banging. Dario came into the sleep room where Marta and Lily lay in the dark – electricity off – shut the door, told them to hush, not to move. He stayed in the room with them through the night, curled up on a mattress by the door.

  But now it’s a bright morning, Dario has gone and all is quiet. No electricity so no coffee, no shower. There are only crisps and biscuits to eat, salt and vinegar, custard creams. Lily sits stiffly at the kitchen table, like a school child waiting to be fetched. Marta finds a book, stained and dog-eared: Love’s Pursuit, and devours it bitterly. After days of streaming rain, hot sun flows through the windows. Marta goes to sit on the rusty balcony, reading the book again, sun on her skin. With a mug of water to sip, some stale crisps to nibble, she tries to feel relaxed; she tries to tempt Lily out onto the balcony, but the girl won’t budge from the kitchen where she sits, fiddling with the ends of her hair, or picking away at a scabs on the wooden table, making clean white spaces with her nails.

  Next morning the rain is back.
Dario comes up into the kitchen, early. ‘Quick is time to go.’ He’s jittering from foot to foot, wearing shoes, Marta sees with a start, smart new trainers with a yellow flash. He keeps his face down, hair flopping forward, but when he moves she notices bruises, one cheek swollen, a black eye.

  ‘What happened?’ she says.

  He blows a bubble and lets it pop, picks the residue from his lips and chin. ‘Quick. Mr Smith, he wait.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  One nod.

  ‘What about Ratman? Who hit you?’

  No answer.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You need coat,’ Dario says. But what happened to her coat? She follows him down the stairs. In the lounge stands Lily, clutching a carrier bag, ready to go. Lily’s startled eyes seek Marta’s, and she attempts a reassuring smile.

  Dario shoves a jacket into her hands and her heart contracts, her knees soften because it’s Alis’ coat, not seen since they were driven up from London, shiny red plastic with a fur lining and a hood. Too big for Marta. In the pocket is a tissue stuck to an old sweet, a pill of some sort, a lidless stub of lipstick. Mr Smith opens the door. His eyes travel over the three of them. Still the dark glasses, still the hat, but he hasn’t shaved; he looks rough and there’s a smell of stale alcohol coming off him.

  He beckons them outside.

  ‘Bye Rosa,’ Dario says, but she won’t look at him. In the wet street petals from a blossom tree make a candy-pink scatter on the road. A car is waiting. The girls sit in the back though there’s no front passenger.

  Dario taps on the driver’s window and he let it down. ‘Boss say no funny business,’ he says. ‘Not to open door till you are there.’

  The driver nods, the window rolls up. The radio is on – songs – weather – news – and heat blasts from the vents. The driver says nothing. As soon as the drive begins, Lily falls asleep, head bumping against Marta’s arm. They drive through a grey, drizzly dawn. Beside the roads the trees are still bare or streaked with new green. The windscreen wipers squeak rhythmically like bed springs.

  Marta looks at the back of the driver’s head, his face in profile as he turns his head. He’s young with dark stubble, wearing a woollen hat that someone must have knitted him. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, bitten nails. They make her think of Virgil’s hands. Maybe he is nervous.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she tries.

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Connor.’ But he will say no more.

  Adverts on the radio, a talk show about problem pets, warnings about weather and traffic hold-ups. They are on the M1 heading south – to London, she supposes.

  After a couple of hours Connor pulls into a service station. ‘Need a slash,’ he says. He leaves them locked in. When he gets back he throws them bags of crisps and Twix bars.

  ‘I need the toilet,’ Marta says.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘no one’s to get out. You’ll have to cross your legs.’

  ‘It’s my period.’

  He starts the engine, backs out of the parking space. Lily opens her crisps, begins crunching. The thin vinegary smell makes Marta feel sick.

  ‘Then I will bleed on the seat,’ she says.

  ‘Oh shit.’ He stops, pulls back into the space, sits motionless for a moment before he turns to look at her. ‘Quick then,’ he says.

  He gets out, unlocks her door and lets her out. He locks the car again. Marta tries to catch Lily’s eye, to smile, but she’s looking down.

  Connor escorts Marta to the Ladies. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he says. ‘Two minutes.’

  She goes inside. All clean and empty. 1992 Service Station Convenience of the Year, Highly Commended reads a sign. Beside the basins, pink tulips flop in a pink vase. The toilet doors are painted to match. She takes her time, thinking; there’s a vending machine from which you can buy tampons, sanitary towels and condoms. She goes out again. Connor is shifting nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘Feel like a right tit standing here,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry, but I need money for tampons,’ she says, smiling into his eyes. ‘I need one fifty in change.’

  ‘Fucking hell, you don’t want much do you?’ But he grins – quite a sweet smile; he’s younger than she thought. He puts his hand in his pocket, counts out coins – she holds her breath, hoping, hoping and her hope is rewarded. He doesn’t have enough change. ‘Need some fags anyway. Come on.’ He leads her into the shop. She waits until his back is turned and then she runs. She runs past the parked car across a massive car park, crosses a slip road to a garage, bag bumping her leg, rain soaking, tarmac pounding up through the soles of her pumps. There’s a sign indicating toilets behind the garage; she follows it, lets herself in to a tiny cubicle with wet paper all over the floor. She locks the door and waits, doubled over, panting, holding her hand against her leaping heart and then she flips down the lid, sits on it, waiting for whatever comes next.

  This toilet, smelling of shit and petrol, would win no prizes.

  If he comes what can he do? He can’t break down the door without being stopped. He can’t call the police. He’s just a young guy hired to drive. He’ll be in trouble with Mr Smith and Ratman, she’s sorry for that but no time to think of others now. Not Lily. Not even her family; don’t think of them now.

  How long she’s there, she doesn’t know. Once her breathing returns to normal and her heart slows, she begins to shiver. The tap drips rhythmically, one, two, three and then a pause and then a trickle, one two three, pause, trickle. Graffiti everywhere, initials in hearts with arrows, something written very small in biro, she squints to read it: Jason is a lying shit.

  Cold. Thank God for Alis’ coat. The smell of her friend in the lining. Alis would be proud if she could see. She peels the sweet off the tissue and puts it in her mouth, getting comfort from the taste of licorice. It’s as if Alis is there just for a moment in that taste.

  A banging on the door; she pulls her feet up, clasps her hands round her shins, buries her head in her knees. After a while the banging stops and someone swears. Twice more, people attempt to get in and fail. And time goes by. Can’t stay here forever. A banging and a rattling.

  ‘Anyone in there?’ demands a voice. ‘Are you all right?’

  She keeps quiet, eyes screwed shut, breath hot and moist against the fabric of her trousers.

  ‘If you don’t open up I’m calling the police, love. Are you OK? Do you need a doctor?’ It’s woman’s voice. Sounds kind but you can’t tell.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she manages.

  ‘I need you to come out, love,’ says the woman. ‘I’ll give you a minute, then if you don’t come out like, I’ll have to call someone. OK love?’

  What if Connor called Ratman, or Geordie? What if he’s there? If he is, what? He won’t be, but if? but if?

  He can’t grab her in front of the woman.

  She lowers her feet onto the wet squelch of toilet paper and flushes the toilet, as if that will make things seem more normal. She tries to turn on the tap but its fittings are loose and it only lolls and drips harder. Fingers trembling, she slides open the lock, takes a breath, clutches her satchel close to her side.

  ‘Here she comes.’

  She stands in the doorway eyes darting, scanning for Connor but there’s no face she knows. Only a wide woman in a kaftan with red and grey streaked hair, and another fidgeting behind her. As soon as Marta steps out the second one darts in and slams the door.

  ‘What’s up with you, love?’ the wide woman says. ‘You’ve been in there hours.’

  ‘I’m sick. Sorry,’ Marta says.

  The woman takes in Marta, the state of her. ‘Are you with someone?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Got a car parked up?’

  Marta shakes her head.

 
‘How did you get here?’

  ‘A lift.’ Marta shivers, snuggling into the thin coat.

  ‘Well I better get back behind the till,’ the woman says. ‘Come in for a warm. You look perished.’

  Marta follows her into the bright interior of the garage shop. There’s a customer waiting to be served. Marta wanders round looking at comics, papers, racks of sweets and groceries, toys and oil, sponges and sprays of antifreeze. Beside a drinks vending machine sits a box of flapjacks and her mouth floods with saliva. One of those would be just the size of her pocket – she reaches out as the woman looks over, beaming. Marta drops her hand.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ The woman beckons her round behind the counter where there’s a stool. Marta perches on it, her dirty, damp pumps dangling. ‘Where you off to then?’ the woman asks, noticing the state of them.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Not sure? No car? No lift?’ The woman regards her dubiously, then holds out a hand. Surprised, Marta takes it. It feels so warm. ‘I’m Evie by the way,’ the woman says.

  ‘Marta,’ Marta mumbles.

  Not Rosa. Marta. Not Rosa ever again.

  ‘Coffee love?’

  ‘Please, yes.’ Evie goes to the machine, presses buttons, asks, ‘Sugar? Milk?’ and Marta nods and shakes.

  Evie comes back with two plastic cups of coffee and a flapjack. ‘Look like you could do with it,’ she says, with a curious smile. ‘Get it down you.’

  A customer comes in to pay for petrol and a newspaper. The coffee is weak but washes down the flapjack, sweet and crumbly, she means to save a bit for later but can’t. Soon she’s licking the cellophane, while Evie eyes her, amused. Is she expecting her to pay?

  ‘I have no money, sorry,’ Marta says, looking at her knees.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Evie.

  A queue of customers builds and Marta wanders round the shop, stopping to look at the glossy magazines. She picks one up, flicks through, so many shiny pages, so many shiny things to buy. One page is folded at the corner with a perfume sample under it. She rubs her wrist against it and sniffs; it smells of Auntie Deirdre. She puts the magazine back, and her eyes catch a photo on the front page of a newspaper. And she stares and stares. Could it be him? Evie’s busy serving someone. Marta tears the front page from the paper, folds it and puts it in her bag. Her scalp feels stiff with goose pimples, yet sweaty too. She goes back to the counter and sits beside Evie.